Quiet – never silent – full of whispered
repercussive plops and beats – soft
involuntary motions in a life – sliced
and undergone, rhythmically digested
and egested – pumping in and out,
expiring and respiring: wetnesses
accruing and congealing: drops and tiny
rivulets set random trails, amassing
into small cool mires – separating
and dispersing numberless desires –
which thread and pop and coalesce
into the simulated unities we all address.
I think you’re you, you think I’m me.
How did we get that certainty?
.
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